<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Man in the Mirror by IneloquentSD</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243748">The Man in the Mirror</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneloquentSD/pseuds/IneloquentSD'>IneloquentSD</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexithymia, Background Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Background Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson - Freeform, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Natasha Romanov, Polyamory, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Self-Discovery, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Tags May Change, Trans Natasha Romanov, historically queer Steve Rogers, not canon compliant past that point, the real ship is Natasha/good mental health</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:28:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneloquentSD/pseuds/IneloquentSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha studied the man in the reflection. His eyes were wide with soft edges, eyebrows lightly raised, lips parted, but the corners tilted upwards.</p>
<p>If this man were not Natasha, she’d say he was excited, no - awestruck. She’d say that this man had just seen something he’d long wanted and been denied, to the point he doubted what he was seeing was even real.</p>
<p>She’d seen that look on targets’ faces before, usually when she’d just made it appear that she was about to fulfill some long-held fantasy of theirs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers &amp; Natasha Romanov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natasha met her own eyes in the bathroom mirror, fingers clenched white around the handle of the mascara wand. With the binder pressing down her breasts until they looked like muscle, the careful application of bronzer to contour her facial features, and the fiber-mascara facial hair defining her jaw line, she looked….</p>
<p>There was a lightness in her chest at the same time her throat tightened. Her pulse raced and her breathing had quickened. The corners of her lips turned, inexplicably, upwards.</p>
<p>She’d spent a lot of time doing cognitive behavioral therapy over the years, learning to pin down her physical reactions and dissect them to find the names of the emotions they heralded. She’d been well-trained to read the signs of them on others, but somehow, it was always more difficult to identify them within herself. She’d gotten to the point where she could name most of her emotions without too much difficulty, the familiar ones coming to her easily now.</p>
<p>This… this was not a set of emotions she knew.</p>
<p>She delicately screwed the mascara wand back into the tube. Her hands wanted to shake, but she ruthlessly forced them steady. She tucked it back into the small pouch of makeup, zipped the bag closed, and set it just so next to the hotel sample bottles on the counter.</p>
<p>She took one more deep breath and faced herself in the mirror again.</p>
<p>Her reflection showed a man. Delicately built, red-hair tied back neatly into a queue, with a closely trimmed auburn beard. His undershirt disguised the binder, the dress shirt and suit jacket that matched his slacks still hanging in the closet behind him. He looked lean, competent, and… </p>
<p>Natasha studied the man in the reflection. His eyes were wide with soft edges, eyebrows lightly raised, lips parted, but the corners tilted upwards.</p>
<p>If this man were not Natasha, she’d say he was excited, no - awestruck. She’d say that this man had just seen something he’d long wanted and been denied, to the point he doubted what he was seeing was even real.</p>
<p>She’d seen that look on targets’ faces before, usually when she’d just made it appear that she was about to fulfill some long-held fantasy of theirs.</p>
<p>She gulped and watched the painted-on Adam’s apple in the mirror move in unison.</p>
<p>
  <em>Okay.</em>
</p>
<p>An experiment.</p>
<p>She turned to the closet behind her and removed the button-down from the hanger.</p>
<p>
    <em>Don’t think too hard about it, Nat.</em>
  </p>
<p>Buttoned it from top to bottom, tucked it in to her slacks. Slid the finely tooled leather belt into place and buckled it. Finagled the cufflinks into place, the silver flashing in the fluorescent lights. Shrugged into the suit jacket, leaving off the tie, for now.</p>
<p>Her cover was Alexei Marinoff, a gallery owner just getting started in San Diego. He had plenty of money, courtesy of family connections, and had recently graduated with an MBA to complement his art history degree. He had every reason to expect success as he got his new gallery on its feet, but still needed to tempt some good talent into showing with him.</p>
<p>When Alexei met Jean-Marc Godlier (born John Greer, 1983, Greenville, NC) at tonight’s gala, sheerly by fortuitous chance and not at all by meticulous engineering, Natasha would have her in to the smuggling ring using high-priced artwork to move weapons, drugs, and classified intel.</p>
<p>She wasn’t supposed to be playing this role on this op. No, she was meant to be behind the scenes on this one, the eye in the sky for Agent Harrow, now delirious with fever in the next room. </p>
<p>But the gala was in two hours and the options were few.</p>
<p>She’d never played a man before, but how hard could it be? She was a skilled operative, deeply familiar with the psychology of that gender after years of manipulating men into disclosing their secrets. This was just the other side of the coin, inhabiting rather than twisting.</p>
<p>But as Natasha turned back to the mirror, she didn’t see Alexei Marinoff. She didn’t see a mask with herself squarely hidden within it, invisible behind the eyes.</p>
<p>The man’s suit jacket broadened his shoulders, and as she watched, those shoulders dropped down &amp; squared, making him look powerful and confident. His lips quirked into a smirk, and his chin lifted with pride.</p>
<p><em>So</em> this <em>is what I should look like.</em></p>
<p>The thought flashed across her brain almost more quickly than she could notice it, before settling back in, lit in neon.</p>
<p>
    <em>Oh.</em>
  </p>
<p><em>Oh,</em> fuck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natasha double checked that the roof access door was locked before pacing over the gravel to the near corner, tucking herself into the small space where the two wings of the hotel intersected. From her calculations, she shouldn't be visible there, and more importantly, she would be alone.</p><p>She could hear the usual night-time noises associated with the city. Traffic, although diminished at the late hour, growled by on the streets below. The occasional clatter of high-heels and drunken laughter drifted intermittently up, carried by the Pacific breeze.</p><p>She let the sounds wash over her, took them in, and let them settle until they faded from her awareness.</p><p>No one would sneak up on her here. She was safe enough, especially with her weapons still stowed on her person. She could stop, pause, and process.</p><p>The gala had gone well. Jean-Marc Godlier was an arrogant man, and it had been very easy for Natasha, as Alexei, to insinuate herself into his social circle for the evening. She had been jovial, relaxed, had laughed at his terrible jokes, implied agreement with his less-than-rational political stances. She had steered the conversation to his art acquisitions business, and by the end of the evening, had secured another meeting later in the week to speak in more detail.</p><p>She was proud of her work that evening.</p><p>
  <em>But it was too easy.</em>
</p><p>She wore masks all the time. That was a given. She always had to summon a certain level of ease to embody her roles well.</p><p>This evening had been different.</p><p>Natasha rubbed one hand over the material of her slacks, letting the fine woven wool slide against her palm. It pulled her back into awareness of her physical form.</p><p>The binder pressed down tight against her chest. The deep pressure felt... warm. Yes, physically, it was warm. The wind off the Pacific was not enough to fight the heat the binder trapped against her skin. She could feel the stickiness of sweat accumulating around her breasts.</p><p>But it also felt... comforting? Despite her mental agitation, there was a small pool of calm, of serenity, in her chest.</p><p>She'd need to take it off soon, though. Binders could only be safely worn for so many hours, and she was nearing that deadline rapidly.</p><p>She felt her brows furrow involuntarily, and tension seize her jaw at the thought.</p><p>
  <em>Huh. I don't want to take it off.</em>
</p><p>That brought her back to the gala.</p><p>This evening had been different. She had moved easily as Alexei, had almost, at times, been able to forget that he was a mask.</p><p>No, that wasn't quite it.</p><p>She hadn't forgotten that Alexei was a mask. The steady press of her Glock against the small of her back, the way her widow's bites moved beneath the cuffs of her dress shirt, and the hilts of the knives rubbing against her calves had been more than sufficient reminder that this was an op, that Alexei wasn't real. She'd never lost sight of the fact that she was there with a goal, and Alexei was a mere means to achieving it.</p><p>No, it was more that she hadn't had to focus on maintaining Alexei's physicality.</p><p>A certainty settled into place, and Natasha blew out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. She let herself lean back into the stucco facade of the hotel.</p><p>That was it.</p><p>She was used to having to check in with how she moved, with how the person she was embodying took up her space in the world. It was a delicate dance of constant correction, of "swing your hips just a bit more," of "smaller motions with your arms," of "modulate your voice a bit higher when you laugh." It was a constant expenditure of effort, coaxing her body into familiar but imported physicalities.</p><p>Tonight, the main effort had gone into ensuring that she kept her voice at the bottom of her natural range. And after about thirty minutes, she'd stopped having to work on even that.</p><p>It was easy to move as Alexei. The swagger of the shoulders, the Marlon Brando smiles and smirks, the long strides that ate up space as though entitled to it.</p><p>Further, she'd known that people were looking at her. She was always aware of the eyes that followed her or not. It was a survival instinct hard-acquired. But tonight, the weight of those gazes had been lighter, missing... something.</p><p>Natasha's hand on her slacks stilled for a moment.</p><p>
  <em>Lasciviousness.</em>
</p><p>Her fingers clenched around the fabric.</p><p>Most people tonight weren't looking at her like an ornament, or something to fuck. More people had looked at her face than her cleavage than any other time she could recall. There was more respect in the eyes that came to rest on her, less lust.</p><p>She snorted.</p><p>
  <em>I guess I now know precisely what it feels like to be free of the male gaze.</em>
</p><p>She squeezed her eyes closed and bit down hard on her lower lip.</p><p><em>I loved it. I want </em>more<em> of that.</em></p><p>Natasha pressed both palms over her face, fingers spread wide to cover her eyes, and blew a long, slow breath out.</p><p>That definitely was part of the answer for why tonight had been so... exhilarating.</p><p>But it didn't seem to cover all of the emotions roiling through her brain.</p><p>
  <em>I'd be a man more of the time, if I could.</em>
</p><p>The thought was sharp, pointed with covetousness, and it echoed with a distant familiarity.</p><p>The next breath Natasha attempted to draw in felt shaky, constricted, like her diaphragm was fighting the binder to expand.</p><p>It was time to take off the binder, no matter the reluctance she felt. She'd check on Agent Harrow and have him take another Tylenol before she showered. Then she would sleep.</p><p>She could further examine the strange mixture of fear and yearning that had taken up residence next to her lungs later. The turmoil of emotions was large enough that she suspected it would still be there when this op was over.</p><p>
  <em>Steve. I should talk to Steve about this.</em>
</p><p>The gravel bit into her hands as she pressed herself to her feet. Her course of action decided, she strode back across the roof to the access door. The breeze still carried the late night sounds of inebriated pedestrians up to her ears, and the traffic still rumbled past in the streets below.</p><p>Regardless of her strange feelings, she was ever Agent Romanov, and she had an op to complete.</p><p>Before she shoved the thought away, she wondered the extent to which Agent Romanov, too, was a mask she wore.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to my friend Jessica for beta-reading this. She's not on AO3, but she's been cheerleading me as I write this. She's an entirely wonderful human being, and I love her so much. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three weeks later, Nat curled up small on the window seat that was her favorite feature of her safe house in Brooklyn. The cheap phone in her hands felt too small for the conversation she was about to start with it, too insignificant a lever for the barrel she was about to pry open.</p>
<p>She hadn’t changed out of her robe after her shower. Choosing an outfit for this seemed, to the irrational parts of her mind that she had yet to smother into submission, to be getting too far ahead of herself.</p>
<p>She huffed out a breath, half in laughter and half in derision.</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes, because getting dressed is somehow a bridge too far when I’m about to do a deep dive into my gender identity. Better leave clothes out of it, Nat - they’ll weigh you down once you try to swim upwards.</em>
</p>
<p>She closed her eyes and focused on the warmth from the thin slice of sunshine that found her window through the gap between buildings at this time of year.</p>
<p>Well, there was no use putting it off further.</p>
<p>She pulled up the text app and started composing a message to the number she’d spent three hours digging into the darker crannies of the internet to find the night before.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Hey, Glory Golden. Your infosec is getting better - it took me more than a few minutes to find this one! We’ll make a cypherpunk out of you yet. 🙂 I’m in town for a bit and I’ve got something I need to run by you. Mind if I swing by your place later today for a long visit? I promise it’s a social call - nothing to do with our mutual friends on the hill.”</em>
</p>
<p>She proofread it three times before she hit send.</p>
<p>True, she normally just broke into his apartment when she wanted to see him, but she needed his full attention for this conversation and didn’t want to start it out with weapons bared. She was jumpy enough about the subject matter without getting her adrenaline pumping before they talked. And she needed him to know that this was an unusual conversation before she got there. He’d be in the wrong mindset otherwise.</p>
<p>
  <em>Plus, you’ll lose your nerve if you leave yourself an out.</em>
</p>
<p>Yeah, that too. Say what you would about Steve, the man could have been born a pitbull, the way he locked on to things and refused to let them go.</p>
<p>The phone in her hand buzzed.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Glory Golden? That’s a new one. You know, I could, theoretically, give you my phone number whenever I change it instead of you hacking to find it. But I’ll pass your compliments on to my best guy all the same. I’m free after 2:30 PM today. I know you know where my place is, so can I assume I’ll see you then?”</em>
</p>
<p>Natasha snorted to herself, reading the message.</p>
<p>Of course Bucky was the one who buried Steve’s new number. The man had taken very well to the computer age, now that he was well into shrugging off the brainwashing.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Tell your best guy that I want to talk to him about some other steps he can take to bury information then. It still didn’t take that much work to find. 2:30 works. I’ll even knock on the door.”</em>
</p>
<p>The reply came quickly.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Wow. You’re so polite. A knock on the door. I’m so fortunate. I’d ask what happened to you, but you *will* tell me when I see you then.”</em>
</p>
<p>Natasha’s fingers shook as she texted back her brief confirmation.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Roger. Rendezvous established and confirmed.”</em>
</p>
<p>She was very delicate as she placed the phone next to the sill, careful not to fumble it. </p>
<p>
  <em>No outs now, Nat. Time to see what’s in this barrel of you’ve opened.</em>
</p>
<p>Now, she had only to get dressed.</p>
<p>She heaved a fortifying sigh before prying herself from the sunny window seat, winding her way back into the dimly lit apartment to examine the contents of her closet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had a thought about "what if Natasha were genderqueer...." and it took over my brain. I'm usually a person who carefully plots their stories, with detailed and color-coded outlines. But this story is demanding to be written, and it is refusing my attempts to plot it, so. </p>
<p>I'm going to go on an adventure while writing this, and you are cordially invited to join me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>